


rewind it before the fast-forward

by skylights



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Bond is a brat, Crack, Fluff, Humour, Kid!Fic, M/M, and Q can't catch a break, children are hard to write srsly what the
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:20:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylights/pseuds/skylights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“MacArthur, Bond is four years old.”</p><p>“Well yes, I heard that he’s rather hard to deal with but you did say he’s the best–“</p><p>“No,” Q grinds out, standing on an intersection at Kingsland road. From here, he can barely see the tail of Bond’s Audi parked just around the corner and beyond that, the shadow of the warehouse he had sent Bond into a few hours earlier. “No, I mean 007 is literally, <i>four years old.</i>"</p><p>(or where Bond gets de-aged and Q hates his life)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://vitalemontea.tumblr.com/post/38135320866) (which contains spoilers for the rest of the fic!) by the lovely [vitalemontea](http://vitalemontea.tumblr.com) and [ndnm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ndnm/pseuds/ndnm)

“Bond?” Q says into his mic after being ignored for fifteen minutes straight. “I’m not going to say this again, pull out right now, this is a waste of time.” It’s 3am and even with the lights of Q branch dimmed out, Q can still feel the beginnings of a headache starting to pound behind his eyes from the screen-glare. This will be the last, the very _last_ time he entertains off-the-book requests from the cheapskates at MI5, promises for a good word put in at the next budget review be damned to hell and back.

“There’s still one more level on the warehouse, don’t be such a pansy about this.”

“Why don’t you come back here and say that to my face, 007?”

Q can almost hear the smirk from Bond’s end of the comm link.

“Give me twenty minutes and I–… _fuck_.”

“Bond?”

“Quiet,” comes the hissed back reply and Q sits a little straighter in his chair, cursing under his own breath as he tries to figure out what Bond has gotten himself into this time. It’s supposed to be a cut and dried hit, nothing more and nothing less, but of course, Bond would be just the right candidate to somehow cock it up royally.

“Bond, report your status to me in thirty seconds or I’m calling MI6 in.”

“You will do _no_ such–“

A burst of static and Bond is swearing again, Q spitting out an expletive of his own when the sound of gunfire starts to make listening in more painful than it should be.

“Bond!” Q snaps into his mic over the sound of Bond’s breathing coming in short pants, the result of probably running down a few corridors to hole himself up somewhere ridiculous. “Pull out the moment you can, this is an _order_.”

“You don’t have clearance to do that.”

“In the event that I am the highest authority here and my agent is endangering his thrice-damned life, I have whatever clearance I need to tell you to get the hell out of there before I have to answer to MI6 for your stupidity.”

Bond, the worthless ingrate that he is, _laughs_. If Q wasn’t busy trying figure out a way to get out of this without a dead agent and blown up property in East London, he would throw his hands up in sheer exasperation. It’s like Bond _wants_ to die, sometimes.

“Fifteen minutes, Q, just give me fifteen and I’ll be back safe and sound.” On the speakers, Q hears Bond shoot five rounds. “Don’t worry so much, it’s unbecoming on a man of your stature.”

“And bullet wounds to vital organs are equal eyesores, I’m sure.”

Bond sounds amused when he next speaks, a new cartridge and what Q thinks are three bodies hitting the floor later. “If I knew you were worrying about _me_ , I would have told you to continue.”

“Please go and get shot at , 007.”

“Such concern,” Bond tuts. “Be a dear and set the kettle to boil, won’t you? I’m on my way–“

The sudden burst of static that blasts from the speakers is enough to leave Q stunned for a moment before he starts scrabbling to get the line up and running again, fingers flying over the keys.

“Bond?” Q barks. “Bond, report your status, please.” God _dammit_ he knew he should have at least outfitted Bond with the pinhole camera before letting him out tonight; who in seven hells would have expected something like this to happen?

The communication link on Bond’s side clicks to a functioning green and Q has turned the volume up as far as it can go, if only to hear whether Bond is still breathing.

What comes filtering out on the speakers makes Q wonder if death had been a better choice.

“Oh bugger me,” Q whispers, followed by “Bond, just…just stay there, alright? Don’t move. I know you hate taking orders but...don’t you _dare_ fucking move.”

  


* * *

  


MacArthur picks up on the third ring.

“Something wrong?” he mumbles, words blurred with sleep and Q digs his fingers into the upholstery of the taxi seat.

“Yes,” Q spits out. “Yes, something is _wrong_ and you’re going to tell me right now who the hit tonight was supposed to be.”

“Oh, Kartashov?”

“Explain yourself, MacArthur. Who exactly is this Kartashov and why do your people want him dead?”

MacArthur makes a hemming sound that Q wants to strangle out of the other man's throat.

"If you tell me that it's classified information–” Q warns when Macarthur seems to still be stalling for time, “–I will go directly to M and let him know that MI5 has been-"

"Alright, alright,” huffs MacArthur before Q can get any further. "He's ex-USSR, deserted and bought passage to the UK in the 1960s. We've been keeping an eye on him along with the rest of his cohort ever since then and it's been quiet till about three months ago."

“Department before the desertion?”

“Biological warfare.”

Q makes a sound that’s half choke, half cough and on the line, MacArthur clears his throat as if in sympathy.

“You sent one of our best after a rogue scientist without thinking it’d be good to let us know what we’re dealing with beforehand? Are you out of your _mind_?” Q is so angry, so tired that he thinks he could spit from it all. “MacArthur, I sent him in with nothing more than a gun and an in-ear piece!”

“It was only a lead and the ray gun didn’t look like it would actually–“

“A ray gun,” Q says flatly. “Of course there’s a ray gun.”

“–do any harm, but the reports we got were worrying enough so we thought it’d be best if…” MacArthur trails off and Q can feel his headache starting to come back, twice as bad as before.

“Before a fuck up like this happened." He pauses and shoves money at the cabbie before stalking out to stand in the drizzling rain that's just starting to fall. Perfect. Everything is just perfect. “MacArthur, Bond is four years old.”

“Well yes, I heard that he’s rather hard to deal with but you did say he’s the best–“

“No,” Q grinds out, standing on an intersection at Kingsland road. From here, he can barely see the tail of Bond’s Audi parked just around the corner and beyond that, the shadow of the warehouse he had sent Bond into a few hours earlier. “No, I mean 007 is literally, four years old.

  


* * *

  


"Bond?" Q is speaking as soothingly as he can into his mobile, having hastily linked it up with Bond's comm line while still at HQ. It's another three hundred metres to the warehouse and Q is running the rest of the way there. "Bond listen to me, everything is going to be okay-...oh hell don't _cry_ , I'm sorry, please don't cry, I'm coming to get you, alright?"

  


* * *

  


In retrospect, Q supposes he should have brought Bond back to the MI6 HQ immediately and called M at that, but under the circumstances of that night, no one can really blame Q for having his priorities all upside down.

"Bond?" Q calls out as he wanders into the warehouse, blessing the fact that he had thought to stash thermal imaging equipment into his bag while on his mad dash out of HQ. There's nothing but three cooling bodies and a tiny huddle in the leftmost corner of the ground floor. "Bond, it's just me, it’s alright.”

The huddle shifts in response and Q clicks the thermal goggles off, even if he still keeps his own Walther firmly in hand.

"Bond?"

A blond head pokes out of the pile of now incredibly oversized clothes and Q feels his heart stutter to a stop in his chest. It's Bond alright, he'd recognise those eyes anywhere. "I want to go home," Bond whines and Q's train of logical thought conveniently derails.

"I...yes. Okay," Q finds himself saying because there's nothing much more he can say to a miniature James Bond drowning in his own suit. "We'll go back." A pause as Q considers the most recent events of his life and how they have come to include the untimely possession of a blond haired, blue-eyed child who answers to the name of James Bond. "I don't suppose you know where your car keys are?"

Bond shakes his head viciously, curls falling over his eyes in the process and Q lets out a sigh.

Bond sneezes.

"Okay," Q makes himself say. "Okay, I'm going to have to find you some clothes that actually fit and then we'll figure out what to do next."

Bond merely sneezes again and Q has to carry the boy out in a makeshift bundle of what once, a few hours ago, used to be a very nicely fitted Zegna suit.

  


* * *

  


Q has to paw through Bond’s old clothes to come up with the Audi’s keys, Bond watching him wide eyed on the curb while wrapped haphazardly in shirt and suit jacket.

“Is this your car?” he asks Q once Q fishes out the damned keys from the pocket of Bond’s slacks with a triumphant _finally_.

“No, it’s yours,” Q says and wrenches the door open to deposit Bond on the passenger seat. Bond starts to squirm and get rain water everywhere the moment he gets put down, fighting the seat belt that Q is trying to work onto him. “And if you don’t stop moving, I’m going to crash it on purpose after I’m done with you.”

“No,” Bond protests even after Q has slid the belt into place. “No, don’t want that!”

Q slams the door with a bit more vehemence than he had intended and when he climbs into the driver’s seat, Bond’s baby blue eyes are shiny with what can only be the start of tears.

“Good lord,” Q breathes out slowly before turning to face the near-crying child next to him. “Okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.” He fumbles to put the keys into the ignition and nearly drops them when Bond starts sniffing.

At this point, Q has to come to terms with the fact that though he can assemble most forms of nuclear weaponry, he still has no idea what to do with a pre-schooler.

“Oh hell,” he mutters in a low tone as the engine starts up, purring under them. Bond is picking at the seat belt and looking as if he might start wailing any moment. “Don’t cry? Please? I’m sorry if I was a bit harsh earlier on–”

“Don’t want it,” Bond insists, the words coming out a bit snotty from how he’s trying to hold everything in.

“Don’t be unreasonable, the last thing we want now is for us to get pulled over–“

“No,” comes the protest and Bond really does have tears rolling down his cheeks this time, Q resolutely keeping his eyes on the road in case he drive the both of them into a lamppost. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself he’s doing. “No, don’t want to be done with.”

Q barely misses a traffic cone bisecting an area of roadwork.

“…excuse me?”

“Don’t want to be done with.” Bond sniffs and looks so desolate, so upset that Q has to pull over at the shoulder of the road in case the patron saint of children smites him where he sits. “Please?”

“That…” Q drums his fingers on the wheel, trying hard to think about how he’s going to explain that it was only a figure of speech. Do four-year-olds even understand the term figure of speech? “No one is going to be done with anyone, okay? I didn’t mean it.” Bond looks up at him with wide eyes. “Really,” Q reiterates and pulls the car back onto the road.

This seems to be an acceptable answer to Bond who finally hunkers down on the seat in relative silence, inter-spaced only by the occasional sniffle that seems to be more the start of a cold ( _oh god_ , Q thinks blearily) than anything else.

“Are we going home?” Bond asks after Q has been driving for about ten minutes. The heater is turned up high and the radio, tuned to the classical music station because at this day and age, it’s probably the only thing left that Q thinks is child-appropriate.

“Yes, we are,” Q says without really thinking. The GPS navigation system kindly informs Q that should he wish to return to Vauxhall Cross, he should take the turning on his right in 400 metres. Vauxhall Cross means handing a four-year-old over to MI6’s H branch to prod at until they figure out what to do with Bond. Vauxhall Cross also means Q will have to sit through a twelve hour debriefing that will most certainly end with the termination of either him, his contract at MI6 or both at the exact same time.

Q turns right in 600 metres.

He’s never really liked those bastards at H branch, anyways.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you still four years old?” Q mumbles as he extracts himself from the armchair and fumbles for his glasses, the world eventually settling into a less blurry view. Somewhere below the level of Q’s kneecap, Bond looks up at Q with a face that Q has seen a million times before. It’s the one that Bond usually gives him when Q has said something (and this is usually only in Bond’s highly misinformed opinion) particularly stupid.

“You have a kitty,” Bond says the moment Q sets him down onto the floor of his flat. He starts to walk away towards where Jasper is perched on top of Q’s coffee table and Bond almost trips over his own shirtsleeve trailing on the ground, Q barely getting there in time to make sure MI6’s best double-oh doesn’t crack his fool head open.

“He’s not a nice kitty,” Q grunts as he lifts Bond to set onto the couch instead, where things are at least a little less likely to end in gratuitous blood loss and crying. To be completely honest, it’s the crying that Q is worrying more about. “You’d best stay away from him if you don’t want to get scratched.”

“But–“

“ _No_ , Bond, and trust me when I say it’s for your own good.” Q rummages in a nearby drawer for something to keep Bond entertained while he goes and excavates the depths of his closet to see what he can fit Bond into without the child suffocating under a pile of fabric. “Now sit still for a moment while I get you something to wear.”

He presses a dusty, early prototype of the bio-sensor Walther into Bond’s tiny hands. “Entertain yourself,” Q says and hopes to god he didn’t leave anything explosive in the gun.

  


* * *

  


Fifteen minutes later, the closest useable thing that Q has found in his closet is a tee shirt that _might_ not trip Bond over if Bond tries to walk.

“Bond?” he calls out, tee in hand. Now that he thinks about it, the living room area has been disturbingly quiet for the past quarter of an hour. “Bond, I found you something to change into.”

Q walks into his living room to find Bond curled on his couch with his bastard traitor of cat nestled in the tiny curve of Bond’s body. The Walther is lying decimated around Bond in a multitude of pieces.

“Jasper,” Q hisses once he’s gotten over the dull horror that Bond really does have destruction in his nature and Jasper just cracks one lazy, green eye open before closing it again. That demon-cat has gotten ignorance down to a fine art. “Get away from him.”

As quiet as Q is trying to be, Bond still murmurs something in his sleep and Jasper lets out a pleased sounding _meowr_ in reply. This time, Q really does throw his hands up in exasperation.”

“Fine,” he says and goes to hunt for the throw his mother had knit him last Christmas, a truly startling plaid affair that clashes with the mostly minimalistic interior decor of his apartment. At least when Bond wakes up, Q hopefully won’t have to deal with a sick toddler on top of a cranky, hungry one. “But if you end up scratching him, I swear to god, I’m taking you back to the pound, don’t think for one second that I won’t.”

  


* * *

  


Q isn’t one for physical activity. He knows he’s much more suited to rerouting electronic signatures through a hundred different servers rather than sprinting down multiple streets ( _where_ are the damned cabs when you need them?) in broad daylight, but beggars can’t be choosers, this is even more so when one is begging after something as obscure as toddler’s clothing. .

Bond has been sleeping for four hours straight now and as much as Q would like to imagine Bond will continue sleeping for another four more, Q is quite done with pushing his luck at anything at all, thank you very much. The nearest store that sells anything that remotely resembles children’s clothing is three streets away and Q had nearly contemplated bringing Bond with him to do the shopping, but the fact that Bond was swaddled up in nothing more than a sorry looking thousand pound shirt along with suit jacket quickly made _that_ an unattractive option. As tempting as the idea might be, Bond’s Audi has been deemed off-limits as well until Q has established none of his or anyone else’s minions, for that matter, have been tasked with tracking Bond’s current whereabouts.

If Bond suddenly falling off the grid has M as unamused as he is now, Q doesn’t really want to know what Q driving Bond'a car around buying baby clothes and Bond eventually being found de-aged in Q’s flat will entail (though he thinks it might involve some choice words and a harsh kick to the arse).

  


* * *

  


“Two complete outfits for a four year old, please,” Q tells the shop attendant who looks quite rightly startled at her first customer of the day not being a happy looking mother-to-be but a harried looking twenty-something-year-old man with smudged glasses. Q had practically barreled out of his apartment after leaving Bond in the questionable care of his cat and as of right now, public opinion regarding his appearance is the last thing on his mind.

“Boy or girl?” the attendant asks hesitantly.

“Boy.” Q thinks he might keel over if he didn't have the counter to lean against. "And I'd appreciate it if this went as fast as possible."

“Shoes?”

“Everything, I’ll take everything.”

“The underthings–“

“I said everything.”

  


* * *

  


“Could you ah…possibly find something less…”

“Less?”

“Less cute?”

Q holds up the pastel green outfit he’s been handed, one that comes with a hood shaped like a smiling frog’s head. It has matching shoes and the word _RIBBIT_ across the chest in cheerful, stitched on font.

“I’ll…see what I can do.”

Q passes the clothes back to the store attendant as if he’s handling radioactive material.

“Thank you.”

  


* * *

  


The final bill comes to an amount that Q didn’t know one could pay for children’s clothing. Technically, they’re supposed to come in smaller sizes, which means less fabric is being used, so _why_ do they cost more than proper, adult-sized clothing?

Q holds the bagful of clothes close to him and tries not to think about how he has just bought Batman undies for Bond.

  


* * *

  


Jasper is yowling when Q opens his front door and behind that ungodly noise, Bond is close to howling his lungs out.

“Bugger shit _fuck_ ,” Q swears expressively and drops the bag where he stands, practically tripping over himself to go try make Bond stop crying. “No, no that wasn’t at you, oh god.” Bond holds his arms out and Q, after a second’s deliberation, scoops Bond up, shirt and all. “What’s wrong?” he asks Bond awkwardly. Q has no idea how to hold a child, much less a crying one at that. “Did Jasper try to scratch you?” It’s hard to resist the urge to turn Bond around the way one would inspect a broken hard drive, but Q clamps down on the instinct before he can cause Bond any more distress. “What’s _wrong_? I’m here now, you can tell me.”

“W-woke up…”

“You woke up?” prompts Q. His arms are starting to hurt a little from holding Bond up and Q sits himself down onto his couch, somehow maneuvering Bond to balance on his lap. “And then? You’re alright, aren’t you?”

“Woke up a-a-and…” Bond disintegrates into a blubbering mess again, clinging onto Q like a loud, messy barnacle. Q has no idea what he’s supposed to do.

“Bon–…James. James, it’s okay, whatever it is.” He hesitantly lays a hand on Bond’s head, the way he remembers his mother doing to his sister when she was younger and somehow, this seems to calm Bond down a fraction. The blond curls there are criminally soft under Q’s touch. “It’s okay, you’re fine now. It’s going to be alright.”

“Not done?”

Q blinks behind his glasses, hand pausing for a moment. He was going to go to babysitting hell for this, wasn’t he?

“Like I said, no one is done with anyone here.” He pulls Bond away from his chest just enough so he can look down half sternly at Bond, startlingly blue eyes fixed on his. “Are we clear on that?”

Bond nods, once, before sniffing loudly. Q sighs and does a stretch that any Olympic gymnast would be proud of to bat a box of tissues towards himself.

“Blow,” he instructs Bond as he holds a handful of tissues up to Bond’s nose. “And please do try to be neat about it.”

  


* * *

  


“I knew I should have never left him alone with you,” Q tells Jasper once he’s somehow gotten Bond clean and into his new clothes. He’s sitting at his kitchen table watching Bond slowly devour a packet of chocolate biscuits that might or might not be two past their expiry date. For someone who used to have no problem downing six shots of Macallan in a row, Bond is having a surprising difficulty in managing a proper grip on his glass of milk.

“Do you need help with that?” Q offers. As expired foods go, the biscuits aren’t all that bad.

“No,” Bond insists. The glass veers dangerously near the edge of the table. “I can.”

“Yes, of course you can.” It comes as no shock that Bond at four is still as stubborn as Bond at forty-four, even if the former has a considerably less offensive vocabulary to accompany his aversion for assistance. With an eye on Bond and another on his mobile screen, Q scrolls past the updates he’s been getting from MacArthur all morning.

 _Kartashov identified in clean-up,_ reads the latest one. _Tell Bond thank you, once you think he can handle being told he’s a trained killer._

Across the table, Bond manages to accidentally upend the entire glass of milk over himself.

  


* * *

  


“I don’t suppose you know where Bond is?”

“No, no idea at all, sir.” Q fake-coughs and tries to sound as wretched as he possibly can on the phone. “Sorry.”

“Why am I not surprised,” M mutters. “He’s probably on one of his impromptu vacations again.”

“That’s quite possible, sir. I’ll let you know if I can get a track on his mobile or something.” Bond’s mobile is actually currently turned off and stashed at the bottom of Q’s sock drawer, but M doesn’t need to know that. M doesn’t need to know a great deal of things, right now.

“Good, good that would be useful. And if you get hold of him, send him my way, would you? He still owes me that field report from Beijing.”

“Yes sir.”

“And Q?”

“Sir?”

“Get well soon.”

Q hangs up feeling only slightly guilty for conducting an entire conversation based on complete lies. MI6 does that to a person, he supposes.

“Are you sick?” Bond demands from where he’s currently bouncing on Q’s bed and getting terrible creases on the comforter.

“No, I’m not.”

“So you lied?”

Q sinks into the one seater he has by the window and watches Bond land onto his pillows, hair sticking up in all directions from the sudden burst of hyperactivity that has Bond rummaging through every reachable surface in Q’s flat. Bloody chocolate biscuits.

“Yes, I’m afraid I did,” Q admits tiredly. “Just…follow what I say and not what I do, alright?”

  


* * *

  


Q can’t help it when he falls asleep in the armchair; he’s been awake for the past 24 hours dealing first with a stubborn middle-aged double-oh and then with a smaller, yet strangely still as stubborn version of the previously mentioned so it’s no wonder that the next time he opens his eyes, it’s already nearing evening.

“Wake up,” Bond whines from somewhere close to Q’s ear when Q stirs a little, still half asleep. “Wake up, I’m hungry.”

“Are you still four years old?” Q mumbles as he extracts himself from the armchair and fumbles for his glasses, the world eventually settling into a less blurry view. Somewhere below the level of Q’s kneecap, Bond looks up at Q with a face that Q has seen a million times before. It’s the one that Bond usually gives him when Q has said something (and this is usually only in Bond’s highly misinformed opinion) particularly stupid.

“Bugger this _sideways_.”

Bond only giggles at Q’s word choice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From where he had been cradling his head in his hands, Q sneaks a look between his fingers at Bond giving the Aston Martin a shockingly yellow paint job.
> 
> “I don’t suppose you can do your growing up a little faster?”
> 
> “What?”
> 
> “Never mind.”

Once Q has established that yes, Bond is still indeed four years of age and no, the past twelve hours or so were not in fact the product of a very strange, very terrifying nightmare, there is the problem of needing to feed a four-year old that has to be tackled.

“Don’t want cereal,” Bond protests when Q takes the box of cornflakes out of his cupboard. “Don’t _want_.”

“Then what on earth do you want?” Q demands, turning round to face the blasted child with the cereal still in hand. “This is a perfectly acceptable food item and I don’t have anything else.”

Bond sticks out his lower lip in a pout and Q sighs, looking first at the breakfast food in hand (okay fine, _maybe_ it’s a bit less acceptable at 5pm) before looking back at Bond. Q only hates himself a small fraction when he puts the cereal back.

“Fine,” he concedes. “Fine, what do you want?”

  


* * *

  


They end up, to Q’s everlasting horror, at McDonalds.

“I hope you’re happy now,” Q mutters as he watches Bond tear into a Happy Meal. “And I hope to god you remember this when you get back to normal because I am _not_ letting you live this down.”

The meal comes with a toy truck which means Bond is too preoccupied with making vroom-vroom noises to notice how Q’s life is slowly falling to pieces around his ears. At least, Q tells himself in desperate consolation, Bond has something to keep him busy while Q eats chicken nuggets and tries to figure out just what the _hell_ he’s supposed to do next.

Unless he has a contingency plan (which he doesn’t), MI6 isn’t a viable option at the moment. MI5, even less, especially since MacArthur has just checked in to say there isn’t enough left at the warehouse to shake a screwdriver at, let alone rebuild whatever it is that has led to Bond attempting to roll a toy truck up Q’s arm.

“Stop that,” Q tells Bond without too much feeling. There are tire tracks forming on his cardigan and Bond clambers over to run it up the side of Q’s face instead.

  


* * *

  


Q hands Bond old blueprints of his work to colour in with markers.

“What am I going to _do_ with you?” he groans, sinking into the seat opposite Bond at the kitchen table again. Jasper is stalking the both of them from the doorway.

Q knows has to go back to work at some point and Bond will have to show up soon enough as well, or god knows what MI6 will do tearing up the country looking for their agent. So what now? Dump Bond on the doorstep of MI6 at sunrise and run like hell after that? Dump Bond on M’s doorstep? Dump Bond in general?

Or god forbid… _keep_ Bond?

From where he had been cradling his head in his hands, Q sneaks a look between his fingers at Bond giving the Aston Martin a shockingly yellow paint job.

“I don’t suppose you can do your growing up a little faster?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Like how Q isn’t cut out for strenuous physical activity (his calves still ache a little from how he had sprinted five bags full of children’s things back to his flat), Q definitely isn’t cut out for child-rearing either. Even his own _cat_ hates him, for god’s sake, so what more a child?

  


* * *

  


“You sleep on this end and I’ll sleep on this end, okay?”

Bond looks doubtful at Q’s proposition and Q knows he shouldn’t be so squeamish about sharing a bed with a four-year old, but this is _Bond_ as a four-year old. Bath time was already horrendous enough (Q had dumped Bond in the bath and hoped he wouldn’t accidentally drown when Q’s back was turned) and now that Bond is determined not to sleep alone tonight, Q can’t even retreat to the relative safety of his couch.

“I can still sleep outside if–“

“ _No_ ,” comes the vehement protest. Bond has wide, wide eyes of cornflower blue that Q tells himself he should never look directly into if he still wants to keep his sanity.

“Not even if I put in a nightlight?”

“No,” Bond sniffs. “No, don’t want.”

“Who’s the pansy _now_ ,” Q mutters under his breath as he climbs in next to Bond and Jasper, the bastard feline, jumps onto the sheets as well.

“Jasper get–“

“Kitty!”

“No Bond the kitty can’t stay on the bed because he sheds hair everywhere.”

“But the kitty–“

“Jasper get off, goddammit–… _fuck_ , you devil cat I swear I will take you back to the pound in the morning.”

  


* * *

  


It’s an uneventful night, if any. Q ends up with a long, thin scratch down the side of his hand and Bond doesn’t go to sleep without Q needing to read him something first, which is a problem in itself because the only reading material Q has lying around is a textbook on Bayesian time series models.

“Yes?” Q asks hopefully, holding the 432-paged tome up for Bond’s consideration.

“No.”

If anyone ever needs to ask why Q has a .pdf of _Five go to Mystery Moor_ on his tablet, this is why.

  


* * *

  


Q wakes up to a cat in his face and someone in his bed, which would have ended bloodily if not for the fact that Jasper managed to land another scratch on the side of Q’s arm before Q could pull a gun on the visibly bigger body curled on the other end of the bed.

“What in the name of all things…”

Bond isn’t back to his old self, but neither is Bond the same age that he had been six hours ago.

“Hey.” Q prods at Bond who’s sleeping curled on his side. Jasper has leapt into the conveniently cat-spaced emptiness Bond has left in front of his chest, hissing at Q when Q touches Bond. “Hey, wake up.”

“Hngh?”

“How old are you now?”

Bond’s eyes creak open and with Jasper’s ears barely tickling the underside of Bond’s chin, Bond mumbles “Eight, I think?”

  


* * *

  


“This is a very interesting development,” Q says to no one in particular as Bond sullenly eats cereal at the kitchen table.

“It is? And–“ Bond crunches down onto a spoonful of cornflakes, “–I have a first name, it’s James.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  


* * *

  


Bond at eight is a scrawny, limber thing and Q finds himself almost preferring Bond at four. At least, the latter couldn’t speak in sentences beyond seven words and didn’t find great pleasure in being an enormous pain in the arse.

“But why?” Bond asks for the umpteenth time after Q has patiently explained the situation. He tugs uncomfortably at the tee shirt that Q had managed to get onto him and Q can only bless the fact that he had forgotten to get pajamas for Bond the day before, resulting in Bond having to sleep in one of Q’s own pair even though he had half drowned in them. Better half drown than Q having to go at Bond with a pair of scissors to get too-tight things off him, at any rate. “Why did it happen?”

“I don’t know _why_ ; it has a lot of fiddly things to do with biology and the like so I’m not too clear on the details. Just…” Q pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just stay in the flat, alright?”

“But _why_?”

“Because you’ll give people a heart-attack if you suddenly had a growth spurt on the middle of the street. Besides, you have no clothes that fit you right now and I need to get you new clothes. Again.”

Bond considers this for a moment and Q prays to whatever unknown gods there are out there that _please, let this be the last question_.

“What’s a spurt?” Bond finally asks and Q has to go to dictionary.com to explain what it is.

  


* * *

  


“Can I return these?” Q places the bag of clothes on the counter and the woman at the store eyes him strangely. To Q’s credit though, he thinks he looks a lot less distressed today as opposed to yesterday morning.

“No refunds, sorry.”

“I…okay. Then can I…get an outfit for an eight year old?”

“…boy?”

“Yes.”

“Wait right there.”

When she walks away, Q has a legitimate fear that she might actually call the police to report the possible running of a child smuggling ring, but then he gets roped into choosing new underwear and Q almost wishes for the police instead.

  


* * *

  


“Put these on,” Q tells Bond when he gets back. “And if you think you’re going to have another growth spurt, let me know in advance so I can order things online instead.”

“Can I use your computer?”

“ No.”

“But _why_?”

“Because I said so, that’s why.”

The idea of Bond, at whatever age, near his personal electronics is one that Q doesn’t want to entertain at all, in any feasible way. Bond trudges away to put his new things on and Q feels vaguely guilty for being so crabby in the morning (spending an unreasonable amount on children’s clothing does that to a person) so when Bond shows up in his living room again decked out in his new things, Q has dragged the Wii out of it’s hiding place in the drawer.

  


* * *

  


For his age, Bond is devastatingly good at Call of Duty.

It’s definitely not the most child-appropriate game Q has on hand, but Q figures that Bond might be 18 in a few days anyways, so it doesn’t really matter in the long run. Besides, the whole double-oh thing makes Black Ops II look like just another day at the office and as long as it keeps Bond quiet for a while, Q couldn’t care less.

  


* * *

  


“These are instant noodles.” Bond picks at the limp looking noodles in his bowl and Q barely looks up from where he’s trying to find out if Q branch had managed to survive the day without him.

“Spectacular deduction skills,” Q says drily as he scrolls past a field damages report. “Yes they are.”

So far so good, even if it appears that 003 managed to lose her explosive Louboutins behind in Taipei. It’s a pity; Q had rather liked those stilettos.

“I don’t _like_ instant noodles.”

“You didn’t like cereal at age four but you devoured it this morning.”

“But it’s _now_.”

“Look, Bond, I don’t have the time or the inclination right now to cater to your every whim and fancy when–“

Bond casually pushes his bowl off the table and Q yelps when the sound startles him from a new memo from Tanner reminding Q branch to turn in their budget expansion forms.

“Why the _hell_ did you do that for?”

“Don’t like instant noodles,” Bond says, smug. Jasper is already lapping at the soup on the floor and Q has to convince himself that England _really does_ need 007 back in one complete piece.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not exactly a step up from picky eating, sulking and food on the floor, but as long as Bond seems content to just sit at home and eat Q’s food, Q isn’t going to complain too much.

For the stunt that he pulled with the bowl of noodles, Bond gets sent for a time out in the corner of Q’s living room.

“You’re going to stay there and think about what you’ve done,” Q says in what he hopes is a stern sounding voice as Bond sullenly turns around to face the walls. If that tone is good enough to send his minions scurrying to fix sloppy coding, then it should be good enough to keep Bond out of trouble while Q scrubs soup off his kitchen tiles. “And _no_ moving until I say so. Is that clear?”

Bond nods and Q pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, before stalking back into the kitchen.

  


* * *

  


It’s not that Q…purposely forgets about Bond in the corner. With the clean-up (terrible), sudden call from his sister demanding to know whether he’s going to make it to her engagement party (maybe) and one new message from one of his underlings regarding a glitch in the bug they’ve been working on (resolved), the matter of Bond being left alone just sort of slips Q’s mind. Q doesn’t know how more than an hour even manages to pass that fast and honestly, when one is capable of picking ramen bits off the kitchen floor while dictating lines of code that can send lesser programmers crying for maternal figures, one shouldn’t have to worry about eight year olds being left in corners.

Also, the fact that Bond is blessedly quiet for once just makes it easier to forget that he’s actually there, so if you squint at the situation…it’s not entirely Q’s fault.

Really.

  


* * *

  


“I'm sorry,” Bond says to Q, stubbornly trying not to sniff when Q tells him he can come out of the corner. “I’ll eat the noodles next time.”

“I…ah. Yes." When it comes to guilt, Q is more accustomed to feeling bad over collapsed buildings and frayed international relations . This…is very new. Very, very new indeed. "I’m sorry too,” he attempts before gently steering Bond towards the couch. “That was a bit too long, wasn’t it?” 

Bond gives Q a look that has Q fidgeting nervously with the bar of Swiss milk chocolate he plans to offer up as penance. 

“You don’t have to eat noodles if you don’t want to,” Q adds in a sudden burst of extremely bad parenting and the look of utter betrayal on Bond’s face is more than enough to make Q abandon any further notion of trying to make Bond feel better, Q skipping straight instead to the part where he hastily retreats to the other end of the couch with a laptop to reflect on his sins.

  


* * *

  


Unsurprisingly, Bond still seems to be sulking over the time out incident. Questions are met with wet-sounding, uninspired answers and the chocolate has only nibbled at before being thrown aside, Q fervently wanting to blame the latter on the fact that he remembers _his_ Bond has no sweet tooth whatsoever.

Not for the first time over the past few days, Q doesn't even know what's more disturbing anymore. The fact that his brain has conveniently started to categorise Bond at 43 as _his_ Bond? 

The fact that he actually knows enough about Bond's eating habits to retain that particular tidbit of information?

Or maybe all of that is currently being overshadowed by how Bond, aged 8.5, is sitting sullenly on Q's couch, stubby arms crossed as he stares at the blank screen of Q's telly.

Like Q said: disturbing.

"Are you hungry?" Q prods carefully after ten minutes have passed and Bond hasn't moved an inch. 

"No."

"Then er, would you like to...watch something?"

"Okay."

The load of guilt that insists on lingering around Q's general vicinity intensifies at the flat sounding tone, even more so when Q belatedly realises that he has nothing on Sky beyond news stations and the standard BBC fare. It’s mid-afternoon, which hardly makes for conducive programming. 

"Just...watch this for now, I'll go download something," Q says apologetically as he leaves Bond with a CNN documentary on Turkish carpet weavers. "You're good with Disney, aren't you?"

Bond fixes Q with a Look.

Babysitting gods strike him _dead_ where he stand.

  


* * *

  


Thankfully, Bond is eight for all of two more hellish days before Q wakes up one morning and Bond is suddenly fifteen, smug as they come and incredibly filthy mouthed when he soundly kicks Q’s arse on the Wii. At fifteen, Bond is nearly tall enough for Q to finally do away with the red-faced trips down to the shops and even if Q thinks he’ll have to burn a few pairs of boxers by the time this whole fiasco has run its course, at least Q can still derive some small comfort from having saved a small fortune on buying overpriced children’s clothing.

Or...

“You just ate,” Q says blearily as he watches Bond rummage around in his kitchen.“You _just_ ate.”

Maybe not.

“And I’m hungry again,” Bond mutters back in exasperation, obviously unimpressed with how his rooting around has turned up nothing of particular interest. “Is that so bloody hard to comprehend?”

A tin of biscuits is finally triumphantly procured from the very back of the cupboard and at the rate that Bond is going through all the edibles in Q’s flat, Q blearily calculates that he’ll be eaten out of house and home by the end of the week.

“Well, yes,” Q snaps as Bond brushes past him with the tin under one arm. “It _is_ actually quite bloody hard to comprehend, considering how you just ate two sandwiches, the bag of crisps and that apple I was saving for myself.” 

With thinly veiled vehemence, Q goes about shutting the cupboards and drawers that Bond has left open in his wake before following Bond out to the living room. 

“I would try and tell you that most people don’t leave a trail of destruction wherever they go, but considering the party that I’m supposed to be speaking to, that would be like teaching a wall how to dance.”

“Good thing that walls aren’t supposed to dance, then.” Bond is now splayed on the couch with the tin between his knees, Jasper on his lap and the telly turned to some mindless evening program that involves lots of people singing on-stage. “Also, don’t most people have a larger variety of foodstuff in their houses? Last I checked, instant, processed and pre-packaged aren’t part of the food pyramid.” A hand reaches into the biscuit tin and Q can only sigh, conceding defeat.

“Well, if you’re tired of the holy trinity of bachelor living, the phone’s just there. Order take-away.” Q shrugs his jacket on and Bond barely bats an eyelash as Q moves around the living room, collecting bits and pieces of things he’ll have to bring into Q branch with him. “There’s a few pounds in the drawer by the door.

As usual, there is a pause as Q waits for some miraculous sign of acknowledgement from Bond, but 15 seconds pass and Q has to come to terms with the fact that Bond has apparently maxed out his teenage capacity for human interaction this evening.

“Well then–” Q finally sighs as he moves towards the door, “–I’m going out.”

“Yes, because of course you put on your jacket and stood by the door just for giggles.”

Bond flicks through the channels while idly scratching Jasper behind the ears and Q can only grit his teeth, wondering if he’d ever been like this as a teen. 

Knowing himself though, Q was probably worse.

“Right. I’ll just be a few hours so…don’t go anywhere, okay?” 005 has gotten himself into a tangled mess that demands Q’s immediate attention, Tanner having called up only 15 minutes ago to cut Q’s impromptu medical leave short. “I’m serious about this, Bond.”

Bond grunts something that Q chooses to take as an agreement.

It’s not exactly a step up from picky eating, sulking and food on the floor, but as long as Bond seems content to just sit at home and eat Q’s food, Q isn’t going to complain too much.

  


* * *

  


“ _Where_ is 007 when we need him?” M all but growls the moment Q walks into his branch. “If we end up having to call in a replacement for just _one_ more of his cases again, I swear, I’ll shoot the man myself.”

“You and me both, sir.” Between taking care of Bond at three different ages within a week and trying to keep his sanity intact, Q doesn’t even have to try too hard to look like he’s still in the throes of a life-threatening flu. “But regarding the matter at hand…”

“Yes, yes. Get to it.” M waves a hand in the general direction of Q’s workstation, Q already gravitating towards it without any encouragement needed. “I’ve already got our DSIS liaison on the line so just…make this go away as quick as possible, and with as little blood as you can.”

“Sir.”

Maybe Q has drastically skewed priorities and maybe he’s the sort of person that parents warn their children about, but it just feels really, really good to be back where mistakes end in sudden death instead of temper tantrums. Contrary to what most might say, destruction and mayhem does have a certain quality when they’re being experienced and subsequently negated at an international level.

“Marcus, where the _hell_ did my mug go?”

Besides, Q would be lying if he said he didn’t miss yelling at people without fear of them sniffling.

  


* * *

  


Q is in the midst of making a very persistent problem stop being so damned persistent when his personal mobile starts to buzz in his pocket.

"Monitor this for a minute and make sure we don't accidentally start a war with Denmark," Q snaps at the nearest subordinate available before pushing off from his chair, leaving a harried looking technician to keep an eye on the screens. Personal calls at this time of the night are _never_ a good thing and Q can only breathe a half-sigh of relief when the number on-screen doesn't appear to be from any hospital or police station that he can immediately recognise.

Instead, the call seems to be coming from a...mobile number?

Interesting.

And by interesting, Q actually means _oh god, this better not be what I think it is_?

“Yes?” Q bites out when he takes the call like the responsible adult he likes to pretend he is. “Who’s this and what do you want?” 

The procedure is actually a bit redundant since Q can already somewhat guess the answer to at least one of the questions and by doing so, have a good grasp on possible answers to the other, but there’s no harm in confirming one's worst suspicions, is there?

  


* * *

  


Because Q should never ask life rhetorical questions, there’s actually quite a fair bit of harm involved in the process of confirming one's worst suspicions.

The first casualty happens when as a result of rising too fast, Q bangs his kneecap painfully on the edge of his desk. 

"On a scale of stone cold sober to really motherfucking pissed," Bond is slurring happily on his end of the line as Q bites back a colourful expletive, "How drunk do you think I am now?"

The second casualty, though less physically obvious than the first, happens when Q can feel a few choice blood vessels strain to pop as he tries very hard to _not_ to threaten bodily harm and scream bloody murder at Bond on the phone in front of his entire branch.

"Bond, where the hell are you?" Q manages out in a whispered hiss instead, already stealthily moving to a more secluded area of the floor. Adult. Responsible, level-headed adult. Yes. He can do this. Deep breaths. “I swear, Bond, if you don’t tell me in the next five seconds…”

"How’d…you know..." There's a sound that’s not exactly a giggle, even if suspiciously sounds like one. "How'd you know it's me?"

“Well, I have an unknown cell phone calling a number that only seven people have at arse o'clock in the morning, so why don’t you just colour me surprised?”

"Do you always sound like you've got a stick rammed up your arse?"

"What do you _want_ , Bond?" 

The silence at the end of the line is more than enough of an answer.

"Goddammit, Bond,” Q sighs, and wonders if any quartermasters before him have ever posted bail for their double-oh agents. “If you’ve somehow gotten yourself arrested–“

"I'm not in _jail_ -" Bond is starting to protest before there's the sound of a mild scuffle, Bond yelping in what Q hopes is surprise and nothing else.

"Bond?" Q asks tentatively. "Everything alright?"

"Everything is decidedly _not_ alright," says an unknown voice at the other end. "Are you James' father?"

It’s through sheer power of will that Q doesn’t drop his mobile.

“…What? No, I'm not...no, wait hold on.” Q regathers himself. “Sorry, but who's this?"

"Constable Archer."

"Oh." Q runs a hand through his hair, retaining the urge to either laugh, scream or cry. Mental breakdowns are frowned upon in MI6. "I see. Er. Is...James..."

"He's alright, but someone better come down here and pick him up before I have to book him for public indecency.” Smith makes a disapproving sound that Q can only cringe at. “Do you always have your children run around at two in the morning trying to harass women twice his age?"

"He's not my-"

"They have me their phone numbers, it wasn't harassment!" Bond says loudly in the background, half giggly and fully sloshed. “She’s getting _married_ in the morning!”

Q holds his mobile away from his ear just to stare at it for a while in disbelief. 

Of course James Bond would be the kind of problem child to go out drinking in the middle of the night at age 15, especially after Q has left explicit instructions not to do anything of that sort, and somehow get himself hauled up by the law for public indecent.

Of _course_.

“I’ll be right there, Constable.”

**Author's Note:**

> I...tried? kshdbsajd D; I really wish I could do the prompt proper justice because I laughed like a loon reading it, and this isn't half as funny as I hoped it would have been :( Also, if anyone wants to have a shot at this amazeballs prompt as well, please go ahead! I've been informed that multi-fills are welcome and one can never have too many baby Bonds in fandom~


End file.
